"he tried to tell the truth, but what came out was only half of the truth. Later, much later, he found that he was unable to relieve himself of two regrets: one, that when she leaned back he saw that the necklace he made had scratched her throat, and two, that in the most important moment of his life he had chosen the wrong sentence."

My gaggle just walked out the door after the usual rounds and rounds of "I-love-you's" and "Have-a-good-day's."

This is how it goes every morning. They kiss me and then say their litany at least three times each. It sounds highly orchestrated...two have-a-good-days and then an unexpected pop of I-love-you, and then they turn it around and everyone does a different part. Maybe this time: I-love-you, have-a-good-day, I-love-you, I-love-you. It goes like that until I hear the front door close.

From the window I can hear Olivia asking Ethan if he remembered his lunch and Savannah saying "tikki-tikki- ta- taaa" as she practices her piano rhythms out loud for the neighborhood.

Olivia has a test today on integers. She was in our bed late last night trying to nail it down. After she left us to ourselves, David and I just looked at each other.

"She is good at so many things," I said.

(Just this morning I looked over at her as we read Alma 41 and I was a little bit jealous. She has the heart everyone should covet. Her resurrection is going to be spectacular...she will get mercy for mercy, she will get love for love. No question.)

And David said, "Yes, but one of those is not math."

"No," I said and grinned.

Is it wrong that I find this complete lack of math skill and even basic logic delightfully endearing?

The note on her lunch sack today (my version of have-a-good-day-I-love-you) included a picture of her brilliantly solving the most complex of integer equations: -5-(-7)=2. Her little stick figure was beaming. I hope her after-school-self will be as well.

Yesterday morning as I drove Caleb to the bus I turned on sports radio. The Boise State game was played on Monday night and it is one of my secret delights to listen to men after they're all hopped up on wins and last minute touchdowns. I have no idea what they're saying (what is "special teams," what is "an offensive line"), but they sound like boys. I love listening to people that can't help themselves.

They were talking about the highs and the lows of the weekend. The panel was listing all sports highs and lows until the last guy said, "The high...my son went off to school. It was time. He needed to go. I dropped him off at college this weekend. The low...when we said goodbye he gave me knucks. No hug."

One of the other guys said, "Yeah, that's not going to haunt you."

And everyone laughed and the conversation dissolved into the chances of Michigan's quarterback winning the Heisman. I sucked in my breath and looked at my son's size 9 shoes.

Caleb's bus arrived.

He kissed me. He told me I-love-you and have-a-good-day a couple of times. He shut the door and walked towards the bus. He turned around twice on his way there to wave at me. And then he gave one more wave from the bus door.